Longarm 243: Longarm and the Debt of Honor by Tabor Evans Page B

son?”
    â€œCan’t . . . shoot.”
    â€œShoot someone in the back? No, that wouldn’t be right. Look, can you tell me what’s wrong? I’m an officer of the law. A peace officer. Maybe I can help you.”
    â€œCan’t . . .” The boy’s face twisted and twitched, and there was a brightness in his eyes that hinted of welling tears that he refused to let fall. “Can’t. Not in back.”
    â€œNo, of course you can’t,” Longarm agreed calmly, puffing on his cheroot. “Tell me what’s troubling you, son. I’ll help any way I can. Will you do that for me?”
    â€œYou aren’t....”
    â€œAren’t what, son?”
    â€œMean. I mean, not alla time you aren’t. Are you?”
    Longarm smiled. “I hope not. Let me help you now, will you please?”
    â€œGotta . . . shoot.”
    â€œWho, son? Who’s done something so terrible that you think you have to shoot them? Tell me, please. I’ll help you. I promise.”
    The boy started to cry. “Got to ... got to do it.”
    â€œWe’ll take care of it together, son. Whatever it is, tell me about it. Me and you together, we’ll take care of it.”
    The boy sobbed, his chest rising and falling at a furious rate as he gulped for air and cried the breath back out of him again. His neck was red with strong emotion, and Longarm doubted he could see worth a damn with all those tears pouring out of his eyes.
    â€œOh, Jesus! Jesus Lord!” the boy gasped in what was obviously a genuine plea from the depths of his heart. “I’m sorry, mister. I got to.”
    He raised the big Remington—damn thing looked several times larger from the front end than it had from a side view—and shakily aimed it square at Longarm’s chest.
    â€œNo, let’s ta—”
    The Remington roared, and a gout of white smoke blossomed at the muzzle.
    Longarm felt a ball tick the tweed of his coat somewhere low on his left side. Close. The kid couldn’t see worth shit because of all his tears, and maybe because of that, he was shooting without really being able to take solid aim.
    Longarm had time to think that this might have allowed the damnfool kid to shoot straighter than he probably could have if given time for serious aim.
    But damn it . . .
    The boy used both hands to drag the hammer of the Remington back for a second shot.
    This time Longarm found himself staring straight into the gaping barrel of the old but still all-too-workable gun.
    He hated it. God, he hated what he had to do.
    But he couldn’t stand there and let himself be gunned down by some poor, simpleminded kid who didn’t know what the hell he was doing.
    It was lousy. But Longarm didn’t have a whole hell of a lot of choices. Not when the boy had another four or five rounds left in the cylinder and there was no cover around close by for Longarm to duck behind.
    The boy, chest heaving from the effects of his crying, steadied himself to shoot again.
    Dammit . . .
    Longarm raised his Colt—he didn’t so much as recall drawing the thing, but it was already in his hand—and shot deliberately low, hoping to take the kid in the hip and knock him off his feet.
    All Longarm wanted to do was disable him, dammit. Make him quit shooting long enough that he could be disarmed. Then, well, then Longarm would try again to help him. He meant that. He had no ill will toward this frightened child who seemed bent on Longarm’s demise. But first Longarm had to do something to keep the boy from killing him before that help could be given.
    Longarm’s slug hit exactly where he wanted it. It struck the kid on his right hip and spun him half around.
    The Remington flew out of his grip to clatter harmlessly to the ground.
    Longarm jumped forward, kicked the gun out of the boy’s reach, and turned back to see what he could do now to straighten out this stupidity.
    Somewhere down the